Nameless
by greystarz18
Summary: Silvarí, once a nameless Elven youth, has woken up in mist of Carvahall Castle, not knowing who she is or where she came from; until a Dragon hatches. Now, with the help of Ismira and Mirelth, she must save Carvahall and all of Alagaesia... once again..
1. Prologue

A streak of midnight blue hair rushed into view and vanished just as quickly.

The night sky gleamed beautifully with its many shining lights. A gentle breeze brushed his skin, and the grass tickled his feet.

_It has been long since my boots have touched this dirt, _Murtagh admitted to his blood red Dragon that stood in a low crouch just to the side of him. He was bigger now than he ever was. Fifteen years had passed in the blink of an eye, and both of them agreed to return to their old roots. Something felt different about Alagaesia, however. The grass was green, the birds still tweeted from tree to tree, the trees were tall and thick, the mountains still towered over the land, and the wind blew like it did fifteen years ago. Everything seemed to be in the same place as when they had left it.

But it had changed, and this time, for the worse.

All things that normal beings viewed, such as people who were not Dragon Riders, were normal as could be. But for a pair of Galbatorix's former slaves, the ones who were cursed and hated by everyone in the land, knew that ground underneath their feet grew cold. A sudden malevolence had stricken all of Alagaesia. The time of evil would ring again.

So that's why they came. And there they stood, just outside the northern border of Du Weldenvarden.

The midnight lock of hair had given her away. Thorn snarled at the elf girl, but she did not cower away from them. Thorn repeated the process and Murtagh even drew out his florescent crimson sword, Zar'rock. Within a few seconds, the elf girl with the midnight blue hair drew out hers. She aimed it at the Rider's heart.

_Let me rid of her _Thorn spoke in a casual tone. His ruby bulk glistened in the moonlight.

_Let me speak first. _Murtagh answer and glanced back at the little shadow with the dark hair. It flowed in straight streaks to just below her ribcage. A red band of fabric held it back, and her pointed ears were visible. The green cat eyes she had stared at the Dragon and his Rider with a yellow tint. Fangs fell from her mouth. And, as far Murtagh was concerned, she matched him in every piece of armor, including how they both wore no helm.

In the ancient language, Murtagh shouted. _What are you here for, elf?_

A small smile touched her lips. For the first time, Murtagh noticed a white steed a few feet away from her and behind some trees. Before she spoke again, she touched her two fingers to her lips and greeted Murtagh and his Dragon with Elven honors.

_Rider Murtagh, I have found you just by chance. My horse, Anurin, has wandered many moons in search of something of huge importance. It seemed she has found what she was searching for. _The elf said without emotion. She seemed, almost in a trance.

_Hatchling, we cannot tarry. We must gain entrance to your city and seek your monarch, Queen Arya. _Thorn snorted again. Murtagh could feel his surprise in how the elf had reacted to their reveal.

The elf with the midnight blue hair sheathed her slim blade and motioned with a swift jerk for them to follow.

The forest of Du Weldenvarden amazed them both. Thick pines surrounded the needle-covered forest; so thick, that the moonlight no longer fed throughout the forest in streams of silver light. Lichen and rocks blanketed the ground. Every direction they went in, Murtagh hard birds chirping, wolves hounding, and even the light footsteps of a lone deer. They walked for at least an hour, it seemed, and then the elf stopped. In front of her stood another elf. He was an older elf who wore robes of silver. A circlet adorned his solemn face. Suspicion itched the Dragon and Rider's scales and skin. The little elf nodded her head, and the marched on past the elf. When Murtagh turned his had to look back, the elf was gone.

On and on they walked for days until they entered Ellesméra. Delights and displeasure followed the party. Murtagh grew tired of the relentless walking and Thorn longed to stretch his sore wings. The delights, however, were also to great pleasure.

The homes of the elves were amazingly made out the pine trees themselves. And, and as Murtagh had never had before, several elves they made contact with stopped and greeting him and Thorn with a bow. _How my brother had felt, _he relayed to Thorn. He had not spoken of Eragon or Saphira in such a long while, it seemed that they no longer existed. Murtagh was determined to visit him though. Sometimes when they were free. Arya and he could go.

The elf led them into a magnificent hall. On a beautiful throne sat a raven-haired queen. Next to her, a huge forest green Dragon stood, his gaze settled on Thorn. Within a short while, the queen's gaze lay on Murtagh.

The little elf ran up to the queen and knelt by Arya's feet. She spoke something so quiet, Murtagh did not hear. The green Dragon and the queen grew restless at Murtagh and Thorn's approach. The Dragons met, sniffing one another with their tongues. Murtagh followed the elf's example and reluctantly knelt. A frown covered his face. Arya, Queen of the Elves and Rider.

"Murtagh. I knew you would come." Arya spoke softly.

"Eragon, Queen. Where is my brother?" he asked. Thorn and the green Dragon exchanged memories with their minds, although Thorn recoiled when it came to a particular memory of the Dark Days. Arya sat still and gazed at the little elf with certain interest. The elf's gold trimmed armor sparkled brilliantly in the halls werelight. The girl looked like a formidable enemy even though Murtagh and Thorn could dispose of her quickly.

Arya gave Murtagh an uneasy look. "He has left Alagaesia…forever."

Unexpected anger erupted Murtagh. Anger he had not felt since Galbatorix. Murtagh quickly scrambled to his feet so swiftly, Thorn broke the connection with the green Dragon. Murtagh began to pace.

"What do you mean he-" he began, but a party of elves barged in, one carrying a strange wooden box.

"Queen Arya! Queen Arya! It's her!" they screamed. The fair folk were fair indeed, but they seemed hasty and reckless with joy. The little elf stood up and froze. Her eyes gleamed with fear. Arya leap up like a cat and the green Dragon's eyes narrowed.

The elves brought the box to Arya and she opened the heavy lid. It creaked open with a long groan. "Come, Little Elf."

The elf hesitated, but then reluctantly walked up to the throne in the crowd of the Elves. "It is for you, Little Elf."

Arya turned the box, and Thorn roared. Murtagh was surprised also. The egg was a golden color, but had a big crack in the middle that seeped in sunset pink color. It was not yet hatched. The Little Elf touched the shell. It cracked again around the small surface. Little Elf ducked her head, and the shell began to crack even more. With a quick motion, the elf shut the case and darted out of the hall. Arya screamed her name and began to run to the entrance.

"Fírnen!" she gasped. The green Dragon roared and trudged after Arya. Murtagh, Thorn, and the elves followed.

The race lasted for days. The elf trudged through rough forest terrain without stopping once. Only until at the Anora river edge, the Riders and Dragons had found her. She was huddled in a bed grass, bile dipping out her mouth.

_The hatchling made herself sick. Something is wrong with her, Murtagh. She…. Is dying… her soul… _Thorn grunted and shook himself. _She is going to die. Someone is taking her soul from Alagaesia. _Murtagh turned and faced his Dragon. He held tightly on to his snout, and tried to press Thorn with feelings of worry for him. Thorn did not reply, but just focused on the elf.

_She is going to die. I must help. _Fírnen stated to Murtagh and Thorn.

Fírnen let Arya's embrace and flew over to elf, but the child darted in the racing river.

"Little Elf, you have to except your destiny. You shall not be afraid. Remember what we talked about," Arya blurted. She was as exhausted as Murtagh. This race had caused him and Thorn much woe. Arya seemed determined to capture the little dead-like elf. Arya had to have some use for her.

"Hatchling, heed your master. Do not be scared to accept..." Murtagh started, but instantly felt unable to say anything more. It wasn't his opinions, just a way to lull the child into her destiny.

_She is going to die. Leeching… her soul._

"I have no life to me Arya. I have not even a name to heed myself with. You use me, Queen. I am wiser than you have taught me to be. You know that with my duties, I will find you Eragon Shadeslayer and you will then be a happier Queen." Arya paled and Fírnen growled.

"You know within your heart that I care most about my duties. Little Elf, a cure may be possible. Give up this feat and join us. The Dragon may give you what you seek."

The elf unsheathed her blade. A single red tear trickled down her face. "I do not blame you Arya. I have no feelings of my own. I am a host for people. A creature wrought of talent, and not feelings. I am not worthy to uphold such an honor as having a Dragon. Even for you, my Queen."

_She is passing into the void.. _Fírnen moaned.

"Something is taking me to my next life Arya. Find the Dragon a worthy Rider. A one who has sympathy for a crying child, or one who cares about your feelings Arya. You can do better. Let go of me, so I can become anew. Find a new Rider. One who isn't… nameless."

Without any second longer, she lifted the blade and thrust it under her chest. A quick shriek pierced the air. A splash erupted as a body fell into a river. Dragon roars filled the air.

_What had just happened?_


	2. Hammer On the Head

Silvarí was clothed in blackness. Or rather, her eyes were.

She had many methods of trying to wrench her eyes open for at least a couple of seconds, but none of them seemed to work. It seemed her eyelids had been stitched shut. So, after all her mental effort, she began to see tiny stars dance in front of the black veil. That was most annoying to her.

Soon, a sharp figure appeared, clouding her vision from the darkness.

He was a strange being. Dark blue fur covered almost every inch of his muscular body as far as she could see. Great and wise yellow eyes squinted at her with newfound interest. Must of all, sharp fangs fell from the corners of his mouth as if he were a hungry cave bear. Silvarí also smelled a most pleasant aroma, but in just a few seconds, it disappeared, and the smell of nothingness that she was so tired of smelling came back. The muscled wolf figure shifted.

"_I come in peace, Silvar__í__ Daughter-of-None. Confusion and madness is ridden in your mind, and you cannot see what will be yours. Please, let me explain further."_

"_You are a most powerful daughter of he who sired you, and I know in fact he would be most proud to call you his. But you have not proved yourself yet, nor found the peace in mind that you need. We have given you a strong name to carry, so carry it well. We supply you with a town that is humble, but also riddled with unspoken problems. Prove yourself, Silvarí, and you can come home to us. Show us that throughout your confusion, a light will shine victorious."_

"_I do not understand. I do not know how to prove myself! Where am I? Who are you? …I don't even know who I am!"_

"_In time, you will."_

The shadow wolf man disappeared, leaving Silvarí alone in complete darkness.

Totally unfair. A strange man, or beast, perhaps, visits her in a vision, giving her advice that did not make any sense. What had he meant by life? She had a life, that she knew that for sure. That or she'd be dead.

Silvarí laughed a crazy laugh. She being dead was plainly ridiculous! Also, being the daughter-of-none? She had to have been from somebody. About being described as _most powerful_ was probably the only thing he said that didn't take her pride away. But still, confusion blocked her mind, and she wanted to stab whoever was responsible for locking her away from her thoughts and memories.

All of that she pondered in her head, until the mental darkness faded, and another person came in her vision. The girl had to be around her age, Silvarí figured, but then again, she didn't know her age. Maybe she had an awful concussion, and forgot everything in her past except that part of knowing her name. And the fact that she had never died.

The girl turned her back to Silvarí, her leather dress and coppery braid swinging in unison. She was pretty tall and strongly built for someone of her age. Her coppery hair was curly, even in a braid, and tucked behind her round ears. She was stirring some concoction in a wooden bowl, as far as Silvarí could see. The shady room was filled with a yellow candlelight, so she could make out a small old night table, four small stonewalls that made the room, and a wooden door to her upper right.

Now Silvarí had her turn to look down. Her own form she was scared to see. It felt as if she was seeing herself for the first time. She looked down, and gasped. She had a much smaller, more nimble body build than the girl next to her cot. She had strongly built muscles, and a narrow waist. She was tan skinned, and had long graceful fingers. Her chest and bottom were wrapped in cloth undergarments, but otherwise, she was unclothed. She shook her head, and brought her hands up and felt her ears. If the girl next to Silvarí's bedside noticed her movement, she didn't comment or likewise acknowledge Silvarí. The ears were as round as the girl's. She then reached for some of her hair and found a silky black braid. No, not black, but a dark midnight blue.

A quick image of a deep wooded forest flashed before her eyes, and then disappeared. Silvarí shivered, and without control, moaned aloud. The girl whipped her head so fast, her hair and brown leather dress could hardly keep up. _"Father! She's awake!" _the girl shouted and hurriedly ran out of the room, slamming the door shut.

In just a few moments, a man and another woman with the same coppery hair as the girl came barreling in. They were not old, as far as Silvarí could tell, but dark circles lined their eyes. The man was tall, and very muscular, and had a brownish color hair with a beard. A hammer swung from his belt. The woman, however, had no weapons or muscle, but only a leather work dress much like the girl's. She also had the same bone structure, so Silvarí was hard-pressed that the girl was their daughter.

"Name yourself. I am Roran Stronghammer, and those who come to harm my family and town will never surpass me. " Roran said. Before Silvarí sat up out of the bed, she looked quickly around for a robe or some cloth to cover up with, but found nothing. There she stood, in front of two strangers, one of them armed, in nothing but underclothes.

"My name… is… Silvarí… yes, that is it. Where am I!"

Roran clasped the woman's hand tighter. "I do not trust strangers like yourselves. What business do you have in Carvahall?"

"I do not think I can be of help with any of your questions. Something has happened to my mind...which I do not know of. What of the events that brought me to this village of Carvahall?" Silvarí asked, but again felt a trouble with how her words came out. For one, she noticed sharp points that were her teeth, or better known as fangs. Secondly, she felt as if she had never spoken before, especially in this tongue.

"My daughter found you by the falls. She took you in, and helped heal your wounds. Nobody was looking for you, but we found footprints upon the upper shore. You have been out for nigh four moons. You are in Carvahall Castle, where my family and I dwell. Your clothes and weapons are in the bottom dungeon, so when you are ready to leave, ask me and I'll get them."

Silvarí bowed her head slightly in confusion, trying to remember those events Roran mentioned but nothing came to her, so she added, "Go where? Where did I come from? What have you done to my mind?"

"We do not know, but that is not the people of Carvahall's problem. We refuse to get wrapped up in other battle. My husband has had enough!" The woman yelled, and stepped in front of Roran. Her eyes glistened with water. Anger, hurt, and confusion swelled inside Silvarí. The woman clenched her fists.

"You found me! I cannot remember as you or your daughter do, so you are lying about something!" Silvarí screamed at the woman. It all came out with a rush of anger that she really did not mean, but she felt better afterward to get that off her almost bare chest. But soon afterward, Roran drew his war hammer and the woman stepped back. Silvarí was ready to dodge any blows, but in truth, the room was too small to miss a heavy hammer.

"You're mad! We have not done anything to you," shouted Roran in a powerful voice.

"What... I don't... stop telling me..!" Then she stopped. Letting all of her hurt and confusion anger Roran was probably a bad idea.

Silvarí, agreeing that what she said was wrong, tried to apologize; honestly, it was probably the only thing that would keep her alive from Roran.

But, when Roran change his glance from her and took a moment to look back at his wife and child, Silvarí darted from the stone room and sprinted down the hall. Roran, and surprisingly the woman quickly bounded behind her. Silvarí was much quicker than them, though, and arrived at two flights of stairs, one reaching up to the next level and one reaching down into a stone dungeon. Roran Stronghammer had mentioned weapons in the dungeon, and weapons that Silvarí had not any idea how to use were better than no weapons at all.

Gliding step over steps, she jumped the rest of the way, which was about ten feet, so she fell in a low crouch. The dungeon was small and held only three unclosed cells, but the remainder was filled with old armor and sharpened wooden stakes. She looked around for a sword, or a long knife, or even a shield, but found nothing that stood a chance against a war hammer. Roran and his wife raced down the last step, and surrounded Silvarí.

She winced, trying hard to remember what the strange wolf being had said. She maybe had a minute left to live, if that long.

"Please, I do not intend to yell. I am not in my rightful state of mind.." Silvarí screeched, and took a rusty helmet in her arms, ready to throw.

Roran stopped in front of her, his breath heaving slightly. "You remind me… of the war. And we don't need another one that would start with the mad like you.. Leave our town, and I'll spare your life. Go."

"I haven't a place to stay. My mind is nothing. I do not have clothes, or food, or water, and I cannot fend for myself if I leave. I just realized it is better to do quickly by a blade then starvation..." She dropped the rusty iron helmet.

"Mother! Father! Are you present?" shouted the daughter, and then she appeared in the dungeon. "Stop! She is not a threat! She is just disoriented form her injuries. Please, do not execute her! I'll watch her, and teach her the ways of Carvahall. Father, can't you see it is my time to be brave as you and Mother once were? If she turns out for the better, maybe she will get her memory back and help us with our problem. You saw her belongings. I know you knoew what she is." Roran gulped.

"What? What am I?"

"Katrina, what is your opinion?"asked Roran.

"The girl is.. no threat in her condition…at least at the present so, I suppose. Let Ismira have a challenge thrust into her hands for once. I'm sure she will, do a fine job. "

"Roran, remember when you defeated all of those Empire Soldiers at Aroughs and Gil'ead? And when, after the fight, you and Eragon were there for Ismira's birth.." Katrina spoke softly, unlike the time before. Her wrinkles seemed to deepen, but her eyes glistened with a beautiful and stunning spark. Roran Stronghammer slowly lowered his hand fromhis hammer in his belt and quickly took his lips upon hers. "It will be all right. We will get through this like last time."

Silvarí quietly spat and on the dungeon floor. She may have been a crazed, mad girl, but kissing was not a good way to show affection in her opinion.

The copper haired girl named Ismira strolled over to her with a stern expression that was not at all surprised. Apparently, her mother and father kiss and confort quite often. She grabbed Silvarí's hand, and explained that she be clothed immediately.

"In Carvahall, do your villagers get angry then kind then romantic?" Silvarí asked, without concern for her actions. When the girl didn't answer, Silvarí slipped her hand out of the girl's grasp. Ismira stopped and stared at Silvarí, like she was a mad, crazy girl. The father is very much like the daughter, supposedly.

"You are impetuous, aren't you! How do you treat thy elders? With the respect you gave to my own parents? Well, not in Carvahall, or you will be executed by my father or anyone just as quickly as you would have been before I jumped in to save you. I believe you are a brave girl, yes, but a good person, no! I also do not know how true your stories are, but I know you really do not have any recollection of the past, so you are not completely lying." She grasped Silvarí's hand again and began to walk up the next flight of stairs from the level that Silvarí woke up in.

"Now that we are calm, I know the perfect outfit for you while you are in Carvahall. You are not to be an odd guest here, so I will teach you all about Alagaesia, and how to be a proper citizen as long as you're here."

Silvarí and the girl climbed the rest of the flight of stairs and came up to large room with a balcony over the town. Lace curtains showered over a beautiful wooden bed, and a small counter to the left of the room that was littered with scrolls atop. Ismira took Silvarí over another door in front of her, which led to a tiny cellar full of clothing. Most of the fabric was made of dresses, but not all.

Ismira picked up a black and red tunic with leggings, a belt, and boots. When Silvarí was dressed in the almost perfect fitting clothes, Ismira brought her out to the balcony, where a wooden bucket full of water lay ready. "Wet your hair, Silvarí," the girl said. Silvarí did just that. Ismira fixed the dark hair in a straight fashion, and applied a red band of fabric to keep it out of the way. The two girls then flowed out of the room and into another hallway, and then to another flight of stairs. The next level was similar to a throne room, she guessed, but the wooden corridors were all Ismira let her study in a short amount of time. Ismira pulled over four levers, and the wooden doors croaked open.

Confusion still riddled her mind and she had so many questions to ask, but seeing the town of Carvahall somehow made things seem more normal. What she saw was several dirt roads, and bunches of brown buildings. Some of the bigger houses were made of the same dull stone as the castle, but a majority of the houses were wood. For the first time, Silvarí wanted to beg Ismira to let her see the full village and talk to the villagers. Maybe one of them would be her mother or father. Maybe one would know where she came from.

"Let's go visit Horst and Gertrude. Both had lived throughout the war, and would be most interested to meet you."

"No…" Silvarí whispered lowly. She was peering through a corner between two houses, and spotted in the far, far distance an old shack.

"Do you see the old shack over there?" ask Silvarí.

Ismira turned her head from right to left, and stared into Silvarí's eyes. "You c-can see that far? Are you looking at Garrow's farm?" she exclaimed.

"Who's Garrow? That's a farm?" Silvarí questioned, and Ismira's eyes grew even bigger.

"Garrow was Roran's father, and Eragon's uncle, but he died from the Ra'zac. That's all my father told me of him. But it is amazing you can see that far! I cannot even make out a speck! I guess you are a special girl."

Silvarí nodded, and started walking down the dirt road. "Who is Eragon?" she asked. She stepped down the last stair and touched the dirt road. She kept glancing at the shack, but it somehow started to get harder and harder to see.

Ismira's eyes gleamed in the sunlight. "Eragon, the Dragon Rider? You must have heard of him. He banished the evil King Galbatorix. He is my dad's cousin."

"Look, he gave me this last spring." Ismira dug in her dress pocket and pulled out a beautiful braided silver ban that should belong on someone's wrist. "You drop it in a pool of water, and inside shows you the beautiful forest of the Elves. Du Weldenvarden. I'll demistrate to you later."

The visits with some of the neighbors of Carvahall went slowly that day. Must of them described the war and of course, Eragon Shadeslayer with his brave Dragon, Saphira Brightscales, and also some mentioned Roran Stronghammer. Not to mention another two Dragons and their Riders. Eragon's half brother Murtagh and his red ruby Dragon, Thorn. Also among them was the Queen of the Elves, Arya, and her Dragon, Fírnen. After the defeat of the evil king Galbatorix, Eragon and his half brother Murtagh disappeared from Alagaesia. Arya remained Queen in the city of the Elves.

Somehow, those names seemed so familiar to Silvarí. In fact, if that was not the topic that everyone in Carvahall talked about from time to time, Silvarí probably could've recalled meeting one of them once or twice before she was warped here. Ismira, also explained many of the works of the village, and how the Dragons chose their Riders today. The four main races, Human, Elf, Dwarf, and Urgal, each were given one or two eggs every seven years. And this year, the second anniversary of the seven-year pact, the eggs would be driven through every part of Alagaesia, in search for about ten more Riders.

Silvarí also learned more about Ismira herself. She was, in fact, about the same age as Silvarí, and had a great heritage. She was kin of one of the greatest Dragon Riders, and daughter of one of the bravest commanders of the Varden Army. She explained that when she was very little, she had visited the city of the Elves. She did not remember anything of it, but as far as she thought, she could faintly make out a crooked, joyful smile of Eragon Shadeslayer. She had grown up in Carvahall Village, and moved to the palace when she was eight. Her father had taught her how to fight, and her mother taught her how to be a woman of the household. Silvarí hadn't a clue on what a woman's duties were suppose to be, but Ismira told her not to worry, and that one day she'd explain and teach her.

All seemed well for that day, but that night after supper when she was sleeping in her old room, she heard a hard knock on her door. In came Roran, followed by his wife. Silvarí had gotten to know the couple from Ismira much better in the past hours, but Roran still kept a close eye on her, which was only natural. And yet, there he stood, his muscles bulging from his work clothes, and his heavy hammer by his side, like that crazy morn.

"Follow me." He said in a rough voice, then he and Katrina turned out of the threshold and left. Silvarí climbed out of her cot, and smoothed out her clothes. She met then in the cold and narrow hallway, and followed them down into the dungeon. When she stood on the bottom step of the stairs and the couple in front her standing next to the rusted armor, Roran cleared his throat.

"What do you know about the problem in Carvahall, Silvarí? You have spoken with my daughter and the villagers." She stood silent and still, and stared at the dirt floor.

"I will leave as soon as-"

"No. I believe we need your help. Carvahall needs your help." Roran turned, and crunched under a wooden work desk. Katrina strolled over to an open cell and walked through the door, and crouched also. Silvarí gasped with surprise. "_Why would they need her help?"_ she thought. Roran appeared in front of her and shoved many pieces of cold metal into her hands. Katrina gently placed a pile of clothing and armor at her feet.

"You showed up in these. They are Elven made, and we think, so are you. Ismira told us of your keen eyesight, and of how fast you ran when playing with Horst's grandchildren. I know of your strength. Although I don't know what you are and do not trust you, I know that you can weild these weapons as a warrior. And we need many warriors for this task."

Silvarí looked down at the pile and noticed two blades. One short and one long, like a sword. A beautifully decorated bow and a sack of iron arrows with goose feather ends also lay in her hands. At her feet was a tunic and chainmail shirt. Greaves and bracers, as Horst had taught her, also appeared in the stack. Even a small shield and a feathered helm lay.

She… a warrior? An elf?

Roran, a hero of battle, needing her help? She just got here and was getting comfortable with her memory loss. Now, it was time to get serious.

"We will train at dawn privately. My daughter, as you probably do not know, is a healing magician. That is how your wounds were healed so swiftly. She will teach you the basics of magic also. You will have to train hard for us, elf. Now go back to your rest. That's an order," said Roran as he pushed past Silvarí, and headed up the stairs. Katrina tried to smile, but it came out as a woeful pout. Then she grabbed Roran's hand and disappeared into the dark.

**Well, I wanted to write this long author's note. First of all, thank you for reviews, as I do appreciate opinions on how to write better and some mistakes I have missed. Now, as someone has pointed out, the dragon is starving inside the box. No! I would never, ever write a story like that! I love Saphira (like my favorite character!) and little elf would not hurt a dragon. The dragon is still an embryo incased inside the egg. -and, i know my wording is terrible, as I apologize, but it has NOT hatched, just cracked. **

**Okay, so the first chapter and many following are very confusing: I am sorry and wish to clear things up asap. **

**So far: Little elf did not "die" but has started her adventure. Note how much more attitude I use in this chapter. As Little elf, which is not her name, you now know, she did not have a real feeling of life. -like a puppet on strings. And I know that Arya and Murtagh were so OOC, but please, that was just a small beginning! I prologue! - love that word...**

**Anyway, some quick pointers: Little elf is Silvari, Silvari is in Carvahall as a human, and is ready to start becoming a little more elfish again. -The dragon has nOT hatched but will, to you know who! :) Thanks for reviews, and any more questions, please PM. (I expect a lot of messages *sigh*) But- I won't give out any more spoilers, so don't ask. Also, flames will be ignored. I like advice, but not getting chewed out. -if you absolutely hate a story don't review unless you wish to give HELPFUL info. **

**And guys, my writing/ grammar will improve. I am a little new and know that it isn't an exception, but pleas be as kind as possible in these beginning chapters that kind've... stink. **


	3. Cell Bars

A cold wind rustled over her. The hair on her arms stood on the ends. Silvarí slowly bent over in her armored suit, the metal clinking as she scooped up a rounded steel shield. It wasn't as fancy as her other armor.

After Roran and Katrina had left, and before she had returned to her sleep, she had a private moment of sitting on the dungeon floor to study her newfound armor.

A great part of it was a strange metal smelted with iron. It was understood that the little metal loops connected together made up a chainmail jerkin. She also had a chainmail coif, and a gold trimmed helm with leaf designs on the side. Her greaves and bracers also followed a strange, golden leaf-ridden design but unlike the others, had unnatural scratches on them. They look like they had been rushed over sharp rocks. Silvarí remembered turning them over and finding baffling runes on the inside. She tried to make them out, but after several minutes, she gave in.

The suit also acquired a strange green woven tunic with tights that went under. Silvarí remembered rubbing them against her skin, feeling the soft fabric as she moved it back and forth and in little circles. It had to be possibly the softest fabric she had ever felt.

Her shield was most curious. It was not fancy or elaborate, but ancient looking. Similar runes from her greaves where present in the metal, but the carved picture on the front was what she was interested in. The picture was a small dragon reaching up toward an apple tree. One apple was golden, the one the dragon was reaching toward. But that was not all. A malevolent shadow stood behind the tree, his sharp blade by his side. Although his face couldn't be made out, Silvarí could tell that the shadow wanted to cause harm to the dragon.

So now, she stood over the empty dungeon, in full armor, staring down at the unforgettable face. Her sword was in her scabbard, and her bow was on her back. The armor was definitely made for her. It fit as if she herself had been its mold.

She shivered again at the cold dungeon air, and made her way up the stone steps. One the way, however, she stopped and thought about Roran. She had been stabbed, and sent to watery grave. Then Ismira, the village girl who was Roran and Katrina's daughter, had saved her. And now, after just one day, she had been called a warrior and an elf, and asked to save Carvahall from a problem she did not even know of. But why did Ismira have to save her? Was she worth this much care and treatment? And how would Roran know if she was powerful when he had only known her for a day? Was he just so desperate to trample upon elves and use them for his problems? Silvarí liked Roran, and felt he was a good person. No, a good warrior. Katrina seemed perfectly capable of defending herself. Ismira, was a mix of both, which made her seem almost unstoppable. Why, then, would they need her help? She didn't even have a clue to who she was anyway.

Silvarí continued to trudge around the dungeon until she came to the steps.

Outside the dungeon stood Roran's daughter. She glared at Silvarí.

Without a smile, she said, "You look like you did when I found you, elf. I knew you are one of them from the moment I touched your mind. The music of your mind was so solemn and stable that the fact that your stomach was gaping open didn't have any effect on what you were. You had no memories, however. It seemed as if you had died, and then the gods decided to give you back to Alagaesia."

"You need to train hard, Silvarí. If you want your honor here, make it by doing as my father asks. You could go home after, and if you can't find your home, you can become our guard here. You have talent. I know that by your structure and by the things you carry. You can be big here, just follow my advice I am about to give you."

"Why now, Ismira? I have to go fight with your father, and then save you town from something I don't even know about. Then… I can go home. How is that a convenience to me? Why speak to me now when I'll just be here, forever serving you?" Silvarí questioned with a tone of sarcasm and annoyance. The fact that she was fighting this girl's father was a bit odd and distressful. Training to service them was not what she was looking forward to.

"Now, because I want to speak with you now! Do not question me, _elf._ You do not know what I am capable of. In fact, you do not even know what_ you _are capable of! You are just pathetic without our help and will never find your way without us. You owe me, and my family. In fact, if my magic hadn't saved you down by that river, you would be dead."

Silvarí thought for a moment and then retorted to Roran's daughter.

"Maybe I didn't want to be saved, Ismira. If I was found flowing through a river, with everything still intact within me, then somebody cared about me enough that they gave me the respect I needed when I would die! You ruined my peace by doing this, and you ask for my help. Now move, so I can continue to serve the grand people of Carvahall, as you command. Move!"

Now she really thought hard. She had to fight Roran, get her behind kicked in the process, and save Carvahall. In fact, if not for Ismira, she wouldn't ever be here. She would've remembered her family, friends, and everyone else she cared about. Her home. And then, she would've died with honor, like everyone should. Ismira took that away from her. They all just wanted to use her for her services. The thought made her sick.

"_Thrysta"_ Ismira spoke firmly in a language Silvarí had definitely heard before, but could not place. It seemed as if she was trying to read runes again.

Silvarí tried to stop it, but it felt as if all the wind in Alagaesia were locked up in a small bottle, and then suddenly released. The terrible wind blew Silvarí down the long flight of stone steps, and into the far dungeon wall. Her back cracked against the wall with a hard thump. Silvarí groaned and tried to move.

Within a few moments of thrashing about, she sorely stood. She drew her skinny blade, and held it out in front of her. Every part of her body felt broken and bruised.

Roran's daughter appeared somewhere in front of her. "Since I've had my fun, I suppose your training should continue, since you just can't wait to start. But, your turn with me will follow shortly after Mirelth… Don't give me that look. I am here to train you, and getting you riled up was well worth a few rude exchanges. Get your weapons ready."

At the name, another shadow appeared on the steps. Before Silvarí could respond to Roran's daughter, the male figure charged her, raising his blade in a deadly arch.

Silvarí thrust her blade in front of her vision with a quiet grunt. The boy had on very similar clothing to Silvarí. But clothing was small to his ferocity.

He knocked her blade aside with ease, and slung his thick sword low in hope as to hit her hip. Silvarí blocked that with her shield and parried with a single blow to the head. The boy raised his blade in defense and then jabbed at her with amazing speed. Silvarí jumped out of the way and saw his blade whistle by where she had just been.

"Who are you?" Silvarí grunted and slashed twice in a quick session. Both were blocked with the boy's square shield. He danced around her and performed numerous strikes.

"Call me Mire." He blunted and threw his shield away to the side. Silvarí didn't want to, but she did likewise. She had to fight with fairness.

Now Silvarí was first to slash. In the first few flurry of blows, she noticed that she was much quicker, as an elf should be. She did not have elf ears, or anything similar to an elf in her opinion, but she was sure she was the more agile one of the fighters. She moved like a jungle cat, calculating where Mire would hit next. It seemed that she could do nothing else but use instinct even she didn't know she should have.

He had powerful and skillful strokes and cuts, but he was somewhat overconfident in hope that he would beat Silvarí. Silvarí thought of other ideas.

Mire slung his thick blade to the right, but then faked left. And as fast as Silvarí was, she could not help but to be cut on the right shoulder. Mire backed off of Silvarí, and retreated to a nearby cell. "Come on, elf! I have not ever seen as lowly as a fighter as yourself, especially not in your race! Fight!"

Silvarí grunted and shook her wounded shoulder. She thought of how the boy moved, and how he wanted to bait her into doing something foolish. So this time, she charged, but not at the boy.

Silvarí's shoulder burned with irritation, and refused to budge as so much as to swing her blade in circles. But for the task she was about to perform, she wouldn't need it. Switching her blade from her right hand to left, she charged at the cell Mire was in. He raised an eyebrow through his iron helmet, and lifted his blade. "Here so soon...?" He asked sarcastically. Silvarí continued her charge at the iron bars, and slashed through them like butter. A clang filled the air as the remainder of the bars fell to the ground.

Iron bars were clutched in her hands, while her sword lay on the ground. The poles were about five feet long each, but Silvarí was confident that the two sharp iron stakes would make worthy weapons and prove ethical tricks. Two swords were more than enough. The boy raised his blade over his head, hoping to strike in an overhead blow. But this time, Silvarí was too quick.

She dashed under his blow and cut at his legs. The sharp iron cut both of his knees. Gratitude fell over her. She was not to be defeated.

He dove to the ground with unusual grace and rolled out of the cell. Next, he was up on his feet with his shield in his right hand and his blade in his left. Silvarí's shoulder felt as if it was sizzling.

Exchanging sharp blows the next half an hour left the couple aggravated and tired. Silvarí danced back and forth and away from Mire's blade in hope to wear him down. Usually, though, she used the two poles to jump around the cells and catch Mire's feet with and unwanted surprise.

Mirelth had brute strength. He was not too big, or too small, but his professional strokes and techniques wore Silvarí out to the bone. Twice more he managed to mark her; one on her chin, and one on her ribs. It was easy to tell that he had practiced the sword since he was just a fletching. He performed baffling loops and abilities Silvarí could never understand with his extra arm. It was like he was made for fighting with complication. And, even though he was a formidable opponent, his speed was somewhat inadequate compared to Silvarí.

All of this she pondered while she fought and considered of where he'd strike next, but in the end, she had her bet that Mire would come out victorious and Silvarí's head would be separated from her body.

The short battle did not end that way however. Silvarí and Mire were exchanging blows when Silvarí's long pole managed to knock Mire in the right thigh. With all the speed she had, she tackled the boy to the ground and laid an iron pole against his neck. One of her feet held down his sword hand.

Silvarí sighed with exhaustion. "Surrender… I shall fight a stranger no longer."

"I am no stranger to you. You have no fury within your bones, and no attitude to fight. That is a recipe for a coward." He grunted and twitched on the stone floor, and then managed to twist Silvarí's ankle away from his hand. She whimpered in pain.

Both of the warriors had each other at neck point. Silvarí didn't have as sharp a weapon as he did, but one small thrust and he'd be dispatched. One slash and she would be leaving Alagaesia forever. "Now surrender, elf. You will not best me. Nobody in Alagaesia has. In fact, I am just toying with you...You do seem to take bait quite easily, as your demonstration with Ismira has proven."

Silvarí did not get angry, or mad, or furious. She could not be baited at the moment. She just stared at the blade that was forced upon her neck. The sword was wider than hers, but an inch shorter. It was perfectly made and unscathed, like hers. But unlike hers it had a purple gem on the end of the hilt, and ancient writing was carved into the blade by the tip. The same writing on her armor, she remembered. _Banish_ she made out. The language seemed clear and full of meaning, unlike before.

"_Banish_," she whispered. And, before her very eyes the blade vanished, and Silvarí felt a release upon her neck. Silvarí gasped, and Mire grunted fearfully.

"How did you do that?" he choked, surprised. Silvarí did not trust him, or Ismira, whom she finally noticed was standing in the corner with a solemn look. Mire was at her mercy for once, and Ismira could choke all the spells she wanted, but Silvarí would just kill Mirelth before she killed her. Silvarí turned back to Mire. He tried to free his hands again, but a harder knead from Silvarí's boots were the only result.

"What did you do the blade? Where is it?" He choked again.

Silvarí loosened up a bit and arched her head down toward him so his helm was only an inch away from hers. "I read its name! I read it… the runes." She pushed harder against his neck. Again, he struggled to push her small frame off of him, but only freed his sweaty left hand. He raised it to his face quickly and unstrapped his helm. He pulled it off and chunked it across the floor toward Ismira. Sweat was pouring from his body and face. Silvarí imagined she looked much the same.

The boy was about a couple years older than Silvarí, but didn't really seem like it. He still had a sharp, childish face, and playful blue eyes. His long face reminded Silvarí of the blue wolf man's face, but instead Mire had a hooked nose and thin lips. He also had shaggy dark brown hair, and brilliant blue eyes. He was skinny and tall, but had plenty of wiry muscles among his arms, torso, and thighs. He smiled.

"How about you remove you weapons… er.. bars, and we talk a bit?" His breath was hot on her face. It smelt of mint leaves.

"You just tried to kill me, not to mention insult me, and now you want peace? I won't be tricked so easily, Mire," she spat. His smile still was planted across his face. How dare he talk to her that way? It was probably the highest insult yet, he asking her to lay down her bars so he can walk away freely.

"Well, I guess I'll start then. My job is to train you in about a day or two. Then, you will join me and all of the other soldiers and spellcasters in our small militia. The disease has been killing like mad lately. Not to mention the Varden hasn't-"

"Mirelth! Quiet yourself! Silvarí does not know of our problems here and would do well if I or my father explained," Ismira yelled and made her way over to the couple.

"Oh come on, Ismira. What's a little subsequent advice going to hurt?" Mirelth asked. Silvarí pressed the bars harder around his muscled. Mire winced and grunted at her. Ismira seemed unworried about her friend.

Silvarí began from the very beginning, "Tell me. What is with Carvahall? Why isn't Roran training me? What is wrong with me that you aren't telling me? How is your sword so special? Tell me now or your friend dies Ismira. "

"Kill him. He is not of great importance to me," she said with a quick smile.

Mirelth frowned, "But what about that delightful piece of heartfelt poetry you and your lovely female friends wrote to me when we were young? I'm sure you ladies are just jealous of all the others I've faired since my manhood."

Now Silvarí cut in, "How many of them were women?" She laughed. Mirelth smirked at them. "All…" he answered," but one. That one night in my grandfather's barn this male ox had the wrong ideas while I was resting and-"

"-I'm sure you can tell I ate that one the next morning. His blood was probably the juiciest I've ever eaten. Anyway, if you wish me to introduce myself, you should probably remove your elven hands from my human chest. If fact, normal elves do not even touch humans. They say we are so un-pure that we shouldn't even be bonded with the Dragons. How I dislike them…"

"I'll request a visit from Queen Arya and when she hears you make racist jokes like those, she'll show you who's un-pure you pigheaded fool," Ismira stated.

Silvarí laughed and removed her bars. "You aren't a threat anymore anyway, " she answered and plopped down by his side. In truth, she needed some laughter. Mirelth seemed like the person to be next to.

"Queen Arya… the face that the greatest Dragon Rider of this time fell to his knees for. You elven woman can do that, Silvarí." He smiled, and then his face fell with a sour grin.

"From the beginning, I suppose. And I will try to answer your other questions also, elf."

" We will," Ismira reminded.

"Well, for one, I am a half breed. I'm probably the worst half-breed to ever walk upon Alagaesia, actually. My mother was a human, and my father was a…dwarf. Before the war, a lonely sorceress stumbled upon the Varden walls and fell in love with a dwarf named Nomínn. They had me, and fought in the big war. My father died in the Battle of Uru'baen, and my mother handed me off to her father, a human by the name of Morgan. When I was about two, my grandfather moved from Therinsford to Carvahall to help rebuild, and continued to stay there. Now I stay with my grandfather and mother, and learn the ways of a warrior with them. I heard oxen, and take care of most of the animals in Carvahall. I am also Captain of their army as of last month; after Roran of course. And well, Ismira has been my mage friend ever since I saw he walk for the first time."

"I'm sorry about Venian, Mire." Ismira spoke in a low tone. Now Silvari had time to realize that the people she sat next to were not her friends and could turn on her as quickly as she had turned up five days ago.

"Who is-" She asked, but was cut off by Mirelth.

"You questions, elf. Currently, Carvahall is being attacked by left over servants of Galbatorix, in hope to drag Eragon back to Alagaesia so they can attempt to lay waste to him with their Shade army. Also, a plaque that those wrenches created is threatening to destroy our villiagers. Next… Roran cannot train you because he has other matters to attend that keep him out of this war completely."

When she stopped, Ismira picked up, "You were found by the river with all of your things still intact. The only reason I had found you was because… I heard a Dragon roar. So I went down to the river and found two Riders, Arya and Murtagh, by your body. They said their farewells, and flew off. But before they did, I asked them to assist Carvahall in the fight. Both of them told me that the Elves needed time to reconstruct and that the issue wasn't important enough. Well, that's what the elf said. She was in distress, so I suppose she couldn't just agree to help."

"But still! If not for them, we wouldn't be attacked! They hide in their big forest, so no one can find them! The Dwarves and Urgals do the same. So, the torture falls upon us humans. Us humans of Carvahall have to fight an army of Shades, spellcasters, soldiers, and plaque! We cannot do anything anymore. We are doomed, just like she was…"

"Who is she?" Silvarí asked with concern. She grabbed her iron pole in fear of being attacked.

"You last question falls upon her, elf. She was a Dragon Rider. One trained by Eragon. She came here, and tried to fight off the thousand shades alone! Without any help, and perished in the process. All I found was her blade… _Banish_."

"That is not the full story Silvarí, but now you know why we need you. No more toying around. Follow me, both of you. We need to travel into the fields to train properly."

"I said go!" Ismira yelled, her eyes watery.


	4. Darkened Lights

The sun in the sky had not yet risen.

Silvarí woke with a startling yawn, trying to recapture the dream she had throughout the long hours of the night. A green Dragon and a women with striking black hair is all the remained of her memory. _Not that I have any memory_, she reminded herself.

Just when she had crept out of her new bed, a heavy pounding erupted from the door and in walked Ismira and Mirelth.

"What are you doing? We don't have enough time for you to seep in hours of unneeded rest! Up!" screamed Ismira and pushed her through her bright yellow tent and into another. Mirelth grasped Ismira's hand and she dragged him along. She gazed at him for a few seconds, and noted that something had changed about him, but Silvarí could not figure what it was.

He was similarly exhausted from their countless amount of sword duels yesterday and was not dressed for battle -like Silvarí was. Silvarí had not had the chance to dive into his mind and soak up all of his feelings about their training, as she wished she could. He was mysterious beyond normal measures, especially with their duels. He was slower and weaker than her but his technique was all it took to amaze any master swordsmen.

The sun was not even up when the entered Ismira's tent. The royal purple cloth tent was Ismira's, borrowed from the many stores of supplies that resided in a heavily loaded room somewhere in the depths of Carvahall Castle. Inside lie a similar cot, table, and chairs to Silvarí and Mirelth's, but as it was yesterday, filled with armor of all sorts. Silvarí had her elven made armor and Mire had his own pair. Where he had gotten it, she did not know. Ismira had pairs of golden gowns stitched with the same color as Silvarí's tent. Ismira yanked her over to a big bucket of water and closed the thin white curtain behind them. Silvarí did not have one of these in her tent.

"Strip," she demanded and began to collect various soaps and soothing bath potions, or so Silvarí read on the label in the ancient glyphs. In truth, she did not trust anything that Ismira insisted on pouring in her bat water. She stopped abruptly and eyed Silvarí with a hint of aggravation. "I said for you to undress."

"What about my privacy? Leave and I'll do it myself." Silvarí retorted. Ismira laughed.

"You have no privacy in training, Silvarí. Now bathe and continue your lesson or stink and continue your lesson. Your choice." As she left the tent, se heard similar playful fighting between Mire and Ismira.

"And scrub your face! You look like a hermit!"

"It's called manly face hair. Only real warriors get it."

Silvarí undressed and got into the steaming water. When she had settled down in the water, her ears strained to here pounding on the ground from feet that were moving. It seemed they were racing around the tent. She afterward sunk into the warm water that clouded her nose with a sweet aroma; she had reluctantly poured the lavender-smelling soap into the wooden tub.

After Ismira had wrestled a bath out Mire, Silvarí quietly sat in her armor, drying her hair on a scratchy rug, Mire whistled a lively tune that was often interrupted with small yelps from when he would cut his face with the razor Ismira got him.

Ismira whispered a spell and Silvarí's hair felt dry as it was before she had taken her bath.

"What was that spell?" she questioned Ismira, and she smirked. A lone witch taught it to me, along with many of the words in the Ancient Language."

Silvarí's eyebrow rose a bit in question. Then, she asked," What is the Ancient Language?"

Ismira's bodice straightened with pride," The Ancient Language is the language invented by the Grey Folk, and spoken by the elves." Ismira picked up the greaves on Silvarí's armor, the ones with the glyphs on them. "Do you see these glyphs? These are the glyphs of the Ancient language. If read correctly, they sound out a word in the Ancient Language. Do you remember the word of magic I placed on you when you when in the dungeon fighting with Mirelth?"

"_Thrysta_," Silvarí remember. She winced and expected to fly halfway across the room, like she did last time when Ismira did it to her, but nothing happened. She sighed with relief.

"No. It would've been better if something had happened, Silvarí. You see, the correct term of magic is a manipulation-"

"-of energy. I have heard of that before, somewhere." Silvarí answered.

Ismira smiled smugly, "You do not remember many of the Ancient Language in time you will. It is a shame though, that one of their own kind is not aware of their own heritage."

"I do not look like an elf. Be reasonable. My armor may gleam with their culture of metalmaking, but other than-"

"Ah!" Mire screeched so suddenly that Ismira jumped up and grabbed a long, woolen rag. Mire ran out of the curtain before se got there, however. He had naught but a pair of trousers on but what really attracted attention was a large blotch of red over his mouth. His big knuckled fists attempted to wipe away the blood. Ismira set the cloth to his cheek.

"Look what harm did you do with just a small blade," she whispered.

Silvarí's feet seemed to jump up with excitement. She vanished from her seat on the rug and swiftly appeared in front of Mire. She tugged on Ismira's hand with mad strength and the rag fell from Mire's face.

Her mind was blurred for a moment, but then was clouded with a set of similar words she had heard so many times before. Energy built up from within her chest, and she focused that power on the bloody gash.

"_Waise Heil"_ she spoke. The skin around the cut began to knit together and within a span of a few seconds, it vanished. The flowing of the red fluid stopped. Ismira finished wiping up the access blood. Weariness flowed through Silvarí as if she had just finished a duel with Mire. She stumbled and ran into Mire with her clumsiness and overpowering fatigue. He caught her with his thick arms and Ismira held her forearm.

"Thanks. I can see shaving is not a talent of mine." Mirelth spoke softly. Silvarí nodded and tried to straighten herself, but mire refused. "Not yet, wait until we give you some energy." Silvarí looked up to face a guy she and fought with and yet barely knew. His long brown hair obscured his blue eyes. For the first time, she noticed he had a small braid in his hair, like a horse would. He had freckles she did not notice earlier and his husky form seemed to be extended. One thing, however, startled Silvarí. He was exactly the same height as Silvarí, she noticed, yet she was bent over several inches, or feet, because of her fall. She wiggled out of his arms with the new strength Ismira fed to her. She straightened and stood over a head taller than him.

"Weren't you…weren't you….? Oh my-" Silvarí screeched a similar screech as when he was cut. He was, well….

"A Dwarf. Yeah, I reached my Dwarven manhood a few hours ago." He said simply. Silvarí remembered the story he told about his parents, but she would never figure he was-

"A dwarf?" He smirked.

"Stop interrupting my thoughts!" she said simply and tried to block out his tendril that was attempting to break into her mind.

Ismira stopped feeding her energy when she had blocked her mind out. "Good. You've remembered how to do that well enough. And yes, now that you mention, he is shorter. Does this happen to every dwarf?"

Mire shook his head. "My mother explained since I was a half-breed, parts of my life would be spent in both cultures. I'm not completely a dwarf, otherwise, I'd be even shorter."

"And your beard would touch the floor and drag behind you," Ismira smirked.

Mirelth shrugged and moved toward his armor. "It matters not. I am not pleased with my father, or mother, or what atrocity I am, but I will have to get over the change. I feel stronger, and older now. And, as I have yet to master the proper shaving ability, I will try to grow a beard. I can be like your father, Ismira." He grabbed his greaves and bracers and tugged them on. Next, he took his leather shirt and slipped it over his head. His chainmail jerkin followed, along with his leather hat and metal helm. He adorned his belt and his sword and his shield.

"Good, it still fits." He murmured and grabbed his wineskin and cloth pack. Today, he also brought along a bow and several halberds: spears that had not just a point, but also a rugged blade on the side like one from an axe. His handsome but changed face frowned. "Where's my wineskin? I was on my belt just a minute ago!" Then, his eyes fell to the two girls.

Silvarí's swift armor was tons lighter than his. It also had a beautiful light to it that brought out a beauty of the elves. She eyed Ismira and winked so fast, it was as if she had twitched. Her muscled hand dug into armor by her chest and dug free a hard leather hide filled to the bust with liquid. "Mirelth, Dwarves are not known to hold their beer well enough without it affecting others."

Mire's eyes were now the ones that were twitching," We'll see, bird bones."

"_Bird Bones! _What a pathetic comeback!" Ismira shot at him, slowly making her way over to the tent's entrance. Silvarí did likewise.

_Go! Go!_ Silvarí shouted to her with her mind. Faster than she thought that magician could, Ismira sprang out of the tent, Silvarí by her side. Mire ran behind them, bellowing a hearty laugh. He was catching up fast.

Silvarí drew her slim blade, and tossed the wineskin to Ismira. "Run!" Silvarí screamed at her, but she just smirked again. This time it was a smirk that was devious, and somehow Silvarí knew she would not get that wineskin back.

"Put the blades away," she shouted to Mirelth and Silvarí. "We all fight a wizard duel."

Yesterday, even though it was hard to recall from her almost empty store of memories, they had mind battled. From the cell bars fight, to the practice field learning the blade and bow, which Silvarí agreed she was formidable with each. She liked the feel of a bow in her hands, and she agreed with Mirelth that her sword was naturally swung as an extension of her arm. Ismira had taught her bit on hammer and knife, and how to throw a javelin. What she also had found out was that while she had a great aim and good enough experience with the blade, her greatest feat yet was mind battling. She seemed to actually use her mind to bend others to her will, which was, after all, a manipulative activity that left her feeling a bit guilty, however, she still showed each opponent no mercy.

Like fighting yesterday with Mire, she first probed his mind with hers and hit a solid wall of iron. After checking for cracks or crevasses that he had possibly failed to patch up, which after a few seconds she realized there were none, she began to think rabid thoughts that would distract him. Many included scenes that involved blood, which she found was a certain weakness of his. She also, to her deep displeasure, forced many seductive thoughts that would prove fatal to a man. Finally, distracting Mire enough to find a pinprick in his shell, she quickly slipped through and willed her mind to press against his. She overtook him, and forced him to go against his own mind and to destroy his own barriers so Silvarí could entirely overpower his mind with hers. She proved successful even when faced with Ismira.

One thing, and possibly the worst, was that she knew of almost no spells. They did discuss gramarye, as magic is properly called, and different rules on wizard duels. They refrained from converse when it came to the Ancient Language, a name Silvarí had just learned of. Ismira said she would teach her all of the language she could in the short amount of time they had, but they had yet to start. Only today, when the newly Dwarven boy Mirelth had cut his chin, Silvarí used magic for the first time, or the first time since she remembered. And even that small feat panged almost all of her strength, which Ismira said was very dangerous to do, as too much energy could kill you.

"Let's hope it comes naturally like my cut," Mirelth winked. Silvarí did not know he could use magic.

A triangle of the warriors formed. Ismira smirked confidently, her golden robes hugging against her waist and her curly bronze hair curling around her face. Mire stood with a tall stance, regardless of his new height. His armor gleamed proudly on his chest, and his blue cape billowed around him. Last stood Silvarí, biting her lip and she stood with her tall and lean figure. Midnight blue hair was taken by the wind, her armor hung on her form with the most ease, and even she had lost almost all recollection of her former life, she felt grateful to be among fellow comrades that were also propelled with the mysterious challenge of Carvahall. The wineskin was floating amid them, too far from anyone, even an elf that could jump to extraordinary heights, to reach.

At the same time and momentum, all three of their minds met. Force pushed on their mental walls so hard Silvarí was given an instant headache. Then, when she felt her walls slip and a mind enter hers, she concentrated on a poem she had read on a wall somewhere in the castle.

_Two bucks bucked,_

_And the doe lie in green, green grass_

_One victor was to win her,_

_Her affection and faith,_

_Two bucks bucked,_

_And one tumbled onto the green, green grass, defeated,_

_Forever alone, but accompanied only by hope itself. _

It had to be a poem everyone in his or her lives understood, "_The victor may have won, but hope will always reside within defeated soul…"_

Over and over, her mind replenished its focus with that very poem, until the walls no longer needed defending. Her tendrils reached out until she felt the presence of Ismira's mind, it quickly drawing upon strength to cast magic in the Ancient Language.

The force erupted from her, and flew to Silvarí and Mirelth. Before she knew it, Silvarí whispered a counterspell that deflected the spell's damage. Mirelth did likewise. Strength now drew upon Mirelth, and then Silvarí found the instinct to deflecting spells helped her gain more confidence. She did not become too arrogant though, and she reminded herself to repeat the poem over and over to keep her concentration steady.

Over and over, Mirelth and Ismira cast spells from the Ancient Language, yet all three of them escaped unscathed throughout the span of ten minutes. All three were tired, and Silvarí had not even uttered a simple word. In truth, she had only done it a couple of times as of now, and really was just relying on strictly instinct. Somehow, she knew that wouldn't keep her in the race for long. So, making sure her walls were stable and that she was paying attention in the battle that was almost residing only over Mirelth and Ismira, she began to think of a word. _Thrysta_, she remembered from when Ismira had thrust her over a span of ten or so feet in the dungeon. But what does _Thrysta _actually mean? When thought of and when summoning the proper amount of energy and focus, and finally spoken, it would _thrust _an enemy however much distance you had energy for. So if she was correct…

Both Mire and Ismira were distracted in a constant mind and magic battle that exhausted them so much, they had completely forgotten Silvarí was in the fight. "_I should just release them and walk away… they'd never notice…"_ she thought, but she pushed the thought away and concentrated only on the Ancient Language and the power it would release and how much energy it would cost her. She only had the small amount Ismira had given her that morning.

When the energy seeped into her mind, and controlled her conscience with the feeling that she had used with only her pure instincts, she cast _Thrysta _and released the stored energy. Overwhelming amounts of energy cast the two of the warriors from their battle and into far hills of grass some thirty feet away. Silvarí gasped and dropped to the grass. The last thing she remembered was a wineskin hatefully getting thrown at her face…

That night, the group returned to Carvahall, weary from their training. When Silvarí woke up, she found she had won with her cunningness, but that they were so angry at her at the time that they sat down on the ground and had lunch and wine without her. She retorted with a similar point grasping that she had a nap, and that that was the best present she could've received at that moment. Despite their tiring wizard duels, they practice with the blade, and learned some of the Ancient Language. Silvarí also found out that Mirelth was also new to magic, and that the magic her and Ismira were dealing with simple spells that required little energy. Mirelth also said, without Ismira within depth of their conversation, that Ismira was taught magic by a group of witches, sorcerers, and magicians, and if she wanted to kill them with her strength of magic, she could have. That did not warm Silvari's heart.

"Mirelth," she asked as they interred the town for a feast of some kind, "I had a dream. A green Dragon and a dark haired elf were in it. They… were angry at each other, and then, over some reflecting, being one again. Do Dragons and Riders really fight? And… do these being actually exist?"

Mire tilted his head with surprise, "I forget of your little knowledge of our history, Silvarí. The only green Dragon alive is Fírnen, and his Rider, Queen Arya of the Elves. And, as far as I've heard from folk around here, Dragons and Riders do not agree on everything. Many time disagreements would break them apart, but no matter how horrible it may seem, they are bonded, and without each other, are as good as useless."

"You said that your friend, Venian, was a Rider? Is that true?" Silvarí asked, and immediately regretted with the look she got. For a Dwarf, his eyes spoke his real opinions like they did before. Sorrow and grief clouded them, and Silvarí found a much similar result in the confines of his mind. They continued to walk on the old stone road until they noticed many lights among the city. Everyone in Carvahall, or so it seemed, was outside at the feast enjoying music and food and entertainment. They city seemed so full of delight that Silvarí could picture herself growing up here, and not waking up with her memory gone forever.

"Welcome to the Black End Celebration!" a cheery minstrel greeted them, and continued to describe when Silvarí asked.

"Every year on this very day, minstrels and bards from all over Alagaesia visit Carvahall, home of Eragon Shadeslayer, to celebrate and tell tales of the hero himself. Many journey here to listen to the story of the one Rider who defeated Galbatorix and who returned honor to the Dragons! They tell of the mighty and noble Dragon, Saphira, and of her many feats. She is the Mother of the race of the Dragons! And also of brave and beautiful Rider Arya, Queen of the Elves, as you know her, who vanished that terrible Black Dragon of Galbatorix's. -Of course her stunning Emerald Dragon, Fírnen. And then, of Eragon's secret family member and traitor to the Varden, the powerful and malevolent Murtagh and his Ruby Dragon, Thorn! Come, see and listen-"

A figure pushed the cheery man with the bright purple tights out of the way and grabbed Ismira's hand. "We've been looking for you," Roran said, and released a small grin at his daughter. "Don't believe a word those drunk maggot-ridden fools say. They weren't there when any of that happened." Roran immediately examined Silvarí and Mirelth.

"Training is well?" he questioned, and beckoned to their armor and blades. Silvarí nodded with respect, curious if Roran would somehow reveal the real story of Eragon Shadeslayer. Mirelth looked similar.

"We will have a spot uptown by the outer castle wall." Roran grabbed Ismira's hand, and like a train, she grabbed Mire's, and Mire grabbed Silvarí's. They skipped and danced to the hearty music, with the exception of Roran. Silvarí, in truth, loved any kind of melody.

Many were drunk with celebration and beer. To have the wonderful feeling of forgetting all the problems that heaved on her shoulders, Silvarí wanted to join them and never come back. She wanted to be mad and free of her problems. She wanted to feel a burning passion, so hot that it scalded all of her worries. For a moment, her dancing fell still and her mouth grew silent. She wanted to be normal, and most importantly, remember who she was.

When they finally made their way to the outer castle wall, which was finally free of the drunken men and music, Silvarí reminded herself that she had to train for this problem in Carvahall. More so, she needed to find who she really was. Without education of magic, proper training, and other essentials, she could not hope to achieve that. It was time to stand up and face her problems head on.

Roran pulled Ismira to the side and they soon were engaged in a serious conversation. Lines of concentration wrinkled Roran's face. His eyes were angry. Katrina seemed to appear next to him within a few seconds, much to Silvarí's confusion. She did not look well at all. Dark, deep circles surrounded her eyes and a different hollowness was visible in her cheeks. He skin was pale had many red splotches in certain places. What was most surprising was her abnormally large stomach.

Mire gasped, "She has a child. And, she is sick! No wonder Roran's sick with worry. She's caught the curse. Oh, this is terrible!" A line of curses soon followed and Mire began to make his way over to Roran and his daughter.

"Wait! What is this curse? Mirelth!" She soon ran after him.

"I know my challenges Dad! Just let me try!"

"I'm not giving up either. I just want you safe! I protected you from Galbatorix when you weren't even born, and now I must protect you again," Roran fought. His face then stopped its constant strain.

"One more day, Ismira. One more day until you will have to wait. Tomorrow the cart will come and with luck a Rider will be chosen. They and the elf are all that can save us. I'm getting a militia ready for defense against the soldiers. Blast Eragon for leaving me alone with this!"

"Sir, as Second in Command, shall I help rally the troops?" Mire questioned.

Roran shook his head and replied with a rough tone," You need to watch over Ismira and the new Rider. The elf will help too." He beckoned to Silvarí. After he commented on Mirelth's new form and went stand over by Katrina. He held her hand and kissed her soft lips lightly. That's when the ear-piercing screaming came.

Far out from where she stood, Silvarí could hear the loud rang throughout the entire camp.

"He's dead! He's dead! Oh! Somebody help me! Oh, oh!" a woman screamed. Silvarí, Roran, Katrina, Mirelth, and Ismira's eyes met. Within a second, they all started toward the commotion, Roran begging Katrina to stay. She refused and hugged onto his arm as they followed Silvarí through the camp. Silvarí's heart raced. They passed the partygoers who were starting to tell a tale and pretended as if the noise hadn't even been heard. The closer they got to the house, the louder the screaming and crying got.

The house was little and brown, and had two stories along with and outdoor forge. It was one of the nicer houses in Carvahall, but not the nicest. Roran and his wife pushed their way through throngs of weeping women and worry-struck men. Katrina looked shocked as scared but kept calm all the same. Many people were inside the sitting room, but through a couple of doors and into a small bedroom was a man about mid aged that lay still in a soft bed. His skin was pale as Katrina's, but his red splotches were far more noticeable and his face had broken out in terrible scars.

The smith Horst and his wife wept at the bed. The widow, Silvarí guessed, stood by four small teary-eyed children. She had been the one screaming. Scrape marks adorned her face where her fingernails had raked and her sob was louder and more emotional than anyone's. She began to pound on the hard floor, sobbing uncontrollably. A elderly woman in a brown dress strolled in carrying a amulet and some sort of plant. She placed them on the man and said something Silvarí could not hear.

"Horst!" Roran yelled. His head turned to reveal a red face.

"Baldor…. The gods took him only a minute ago." Tears raced down his face. "The disease lasted only a day on him. It kills by suffocating. This must be stopped. Roran, we need help again." He hugged a woman next to him, and she hugged a girl a little older than Ismira around the waist. Both tried to calm the widow down, but without prevail.

"This is terrible! Horst- I-I" Ismira choked and went to Baldor's side. She touched his pale face, and a tear trickled down her cheek. Mirelth went over to comfort her. Roran stood sorrowful. Silvarí knew he wanted to say something, but he was paralyzed. Katrina went to comfort the widow along with Horst's wife.

Roran's eyes bore into Silvarí's for it seemed minutes. She now knew what she had to do, and fast.

She drew her blade, and aimed it at Roran's heavy chest. Everyone flinched but him. "Tell me of this infection, so I must get rid of it before it takes another life. This, I cannot stand any longer." She demanded. It had been a long day, and to end it as such, when everyone should be celebrating, was cruel to Horst's family. Cruel to Carvahall. Silvarí finally felt pledged to help these villagers. It was her duty.

"Come, elf. Horst, I must speak with her. It's time… again. I mourn your loss… we… we shall speak soon."

Roran's eyes met Katrina's, and she nodded. Silvarí lowered her blade and sheathed it. Sorrow filled her, unlike just minutes before, and she followed Roran out of the house. Everyone fell silent until Roran Stronghammer and Silvarí left.


End file.
